Kiss Bingo
by damageddementia
Summary: Twenty different kisses, each chapter featuring different wrestlers. WWE, TNA, and ROH.  Last fic, Chris Hero/Claudio Castagnoli
1. CM PunkColt Cabana

**Okay, so, right now, I'm involved in a kiss bingo challenge. It's like bingo, except with fics... if you've been on my livejournal, you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, long and short of it is, I set out to write 25 different fics to 25 different prompts, all of course having to do with a kiss. I've posted three here (one for Animorphs, the others the Petey/Alex and the Vickie/Dolph) and I'm posting the others (with the exception of those written out of the wrestlefandom) here. That's 21 kisses, with different pairings and ratings. I explored a bit, so there's a healthy mix of the usual pairings I do and some you may have never seen. WWE, TNA, ROH... I've tinkered with them all. I enjoyed the stuff, and hope you will too.**

**Onto kiss number one...  
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**Prompt:** Hello  
**Title:** Hello  
**Rating:** I'll go with PG here  
**Warnings:** Nadie.  
**Summary:** Punk's gotta go home. Colt wants him to stay.

* * *

"You sure you can't stay for a little while longer?"

Punk turned around, smiling over at his friend. Every time he managed to come home for a while, he always made some time to visit Colt, whether it only be an hour or a few days. Of course, not having to pay for food was a definite bonus (Colt's kitchen was always pretty well stacked), but, well, even Punk wasn't above admitting that he genuinely missed Colt sometimes.

He'd be damned if he admitted it to _Cabana_, though.

"I've got things to do before I leave Chicago," Punk explained, "And I can't do that here popping Whoppers until I burst."

"We can… stop popping Whoppers." Colt grinned widely, making Punk chuckle.

"It has nothing to do with the Whoppers."

"Then why did you bring up the Whoppers?"

"Look, it's not the Whoppers. It's the 'I need to go home.'" Punk motioned towards the window, as if Colt could see his condo from there. "I've got stuff to do."

"Can't it wait?" Colt's voice still carried its characteristic comedic tinge, but Punk was sure that Colt Cabana legitimately wanted him to stay a little longer. He understood that they hardly saw each other, what with his demanding WWE schedule, and Colt's own work, and every moment they could spend together mattered. But he had bills to pay, other people to see; he couldn't let Colt take up all of his time.

"If you want them to shut off my water, then yes, it can wait." Punk reached out, punching Colt's arm playfully. "Hey, I'll see you soon enough, right? Next thing you know, I'll be back here and we'll be killing our bodies with more malted milk balls."

"Yeah, you're right." His grin was still on his face, but it seemed plastered on now. "Hey, but you'll buy the Whoppers next time, though. Right?"

"Whatever." Punk held his arms out, and Colt met him in a hug. They remained in the embrace for a few moments, before Punk broke away, whispering that they had enough of that. He picked his bag back up, slinging it over his shoulder, giving Colt a small wave as he turned for the door.

"Hey." Punk glanced back. "I got Pepsi." Another laugh, this time a genuine one that brightened Colt's whole countenance.

"See you later, Cabana." And without a word, Punk was out the door, and Colt was staring at it quietly. He missed him already.

But he'd be damned if he told _Punk _that.

Before Colt could even lock the door, there was a loud, insistent knock. Curious, he opened the door without even asking who it was, smiling again when he saw Punk. "You forgot something?"

Punk reached out, placing his hands on Colt's cheeks and pulling him into a quick kiss. Colt couldn't even react; it ended as soon as it began, and he was left staring at Punk, obviously waiting for an explanation.

"Hello," he said, ignoring the question, "I'm thirsty. You said something about Pepsi?"


	2. The MizJohn Morrison

**Kiss number two. I'm going to try to interval them so that there's a pairing from a different company at different times. This time, we're going to the WWE. Then we're going TNA, and then ROH, and then we'll start over again. Sounds fun, right?  
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**Title:** Flavors  
**Prompt:** Trickle  
**Medium:** fic  
**Rating:** PG/K+  
**Warnings:** None  
**Summary:** It's the taste of life. Miz/Morrison.

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It's the taste of life.

Or, that's what John would liken the taste of Mike's lips to, anyway. If he were correct, of course, that meant that life tasted like the remaining ounces of chocolate milkshake in Mike's mouth spilling into his. Luckily, that taste hid any remnants of Mike's dinner he could get, the thick, salty steak fries or the disgusting, greasy burger. The idea of anyone packing all of that slop into his or her mouth made John cringe.

He couldn't resist drinking those last bits of chocolate from Mike's mouth, though. Maybe it was the company, maybe it was the fact that he hadn't had a milkshake of his own in years, but something about that very moment where the milkshake was almost gone that made Mike Mizanin just irresistible.

Mike stared at John as he moved his mouth away from his, his face the perfect picture of amusement. "You know, if you want a milkshake, I could buy you one." He knew John didn't drink milkshakes, or consumed any food like that, but he couldn't understand why. A little something sweet wouldn't destroy his body.

"If I wanted to be a pig, I'd be in a farm," he replied. The diner wasn't much better than a farm, he thought. Tons of fat and questionable sanitary conditions abound, yet this was Mike's party. John was here for Mike, to celebrate his successes, and he'd even go to some dingy excuse for a restaurant off the road for him.

Mike shrugged, looking down at their meals. John's salad bowl and small chicken stood in stark contrast against Mike's stained food wrappers. Mike picked up his glass, putting his finger inside to get some of the milkshake clinging to it and putting it in his mouth, sucking it off. "At least I don't have to kiss anyone to taste this deliciousness."

John raised an eyebrow, and Mike broke out into a grin. It was amazing how Mike could revert to his naturally goofy self within moments, his cocky veneer broken. It was as if all of his self-control was channeled into his ring work only.

"Are you complaining about my lips?" John asked, keeping his gaze on Mike. He couldn't call him Miz away from the ring; the two men were too different, in his mind. Mike was ridiculous, fun; he was a friend above all others. Miz was annoying—and also his greatest professional rival, but mostly just annoying.

"Not complaining. _Never _complaining. Merely pointing out that perhaps my type of diet is a cut above yours."

John laughed. "Mike, look at me. I'm a model of physical perfection. You're soft, doughy…"

"I'm fit enough," Mike said, dismissing John's very valid point, "And I'm happy. You happy?"

"Very much so."

"You're making out with me just to get some real food."

John paused, the idea of a milkshake being 'real food' too much to register. After the initial shock, he finally said, "I'm making out with you because I want to." The statement made Mike visibly brighten, and John pretended not to notice. "Not because of artificially flavored crap."

"As amazing as I am, I doubt my allure holds a candle to that of this milkshake." He grinned, leaning forward. "Admit it. You wish you were eating all this wonderful delectability."

"Oh, of course," John said sarcastically, "Why have a body like this—" he gestured down to himself. Even through the clothes, anyone could see how perfect his body was. "—when I can be a chubby loser like you?"

"Loser? I'm a champion!"

"You're a chump with a dorky sidekick."

"Sounds familiar…"

"Don't you dare," John warned playfully, and Mike just laughed.

"You keep your diets and your sexy abs to yourself… unless you want to make things a bit more sexy, then let me have at those abs," Mike winked, telling him that he was joking, but if John wanted things to get a bit hotter, then there was no way he'd turn him down. "And I'll keep my fats and awesome food to myself. Deal?"

"Deal." John reached out his hand, and Mike shook it, as if they just signed some important contract with each other. Then, without warning, Mike pulled him in, bringing him into a kiss of his own.

He tasted like greens and water. If Mike were a more poetic soul, he might, like John, have come to the same conclusion about the other's lips. Of course, he wasn't, but he did think that he could get used to the taste of healthy eating, so long as they were attached to John's lips.


	3. AJ StylesChristopher Daniels

**Kiss number three, starring the TNA OTP...  
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**Title:** Invisible Doodles  
**Prompt:** Back  
**Medium: **fic  
**Rating:** T  
**Warnings: **Well, nothing. Some sexual content, some nakedness, but do I really need to warn you all about that?  
**Summary:** Artistic expression at it's finest. AJ Styles/Christopher Daniels. 2010.

* * *

They weren't together much anymore, but when they were, AJ and Chris made the most of it. They spent some time with Frankie, or with Joe, or with any other number of people, but when it came down to it, they spent most of the night alone together.

AJ walked back into his room, with a towel in his hand and his boxers back on; once they were done having sex, his shame somehow magically returned, and he couldn't walk around his own room naked. He tossed the towel to Chris, who caught it easily.

"Thanks." AJ nodded, acknowledging the word as Chris wiped himself down. Unlike AJ, Chris had no problem staying naked in the privacy of the room; he couldn't even tell you where his boxers went. All he could remember was pulling at AJ's clothes, not where his own may have landed.

AJ lay in bed next to him, on his stomach, just relaxing into the mattress. He couldn't be more content; the only thing he liked more than sleeping in his own bed was sharing it with Christopher Daniels. "Have an idea," AJ started, "How 'bout we quit and spend the rest of our lives right here?"

"Because you'd kill me in three days and then continue your murderous spree up the east coast," Daniels replied, "You won't survive without a wrestling ring and you know it."

"I could wrestle you."

"You'd be able to handle losing for the rest of your life?"

"Oh, har har." Chris just smiled at the sarcasm, picking his hand up and placing it on AJ's hand, moving his hand against his hair. A small amount of condescension, but an endless amount of affection.

"I missed you too, Al." AJ's lips curled upward lazily; of course Daniels could peel back everything and understand exactly what AJ was saying. Chris was the only one who could do that all the time. "Know what else I missed?"

"Chris, if you're askin' to go again…"

Chris started laughing, his body shaking, cutting AJ off. He couldn't believe AJ just said that. "Well, not _tonight_, I'm not some type of machine." His hand made it to AJ's bare back slowly, running his hand downwards, stopping right before the waistband of his boxers. "But maybe tomorrow, huh?"

"We'll see." It meant yes. Chris knew it meant yes. Besides, he was pretty sure that, if he really wanted to have sex again tonight, he could convince AJ with very little trouble. "What else didya miss?"

Chris just smirked before rolling over, moving to straddle AJ's back. AJ laughed despite himself; his mind drew one conclusion. "You're naked on toppa me, Chris."

"I'm aware."

"If it ain't clear, I'm not havin' sex tonight." He said, the amusement evident in his voice.

"Oh no, perfectly clear." Chris was a firm believer that actions spoke louder than words, so he just placed his hand on AJ's back, moving one polished nail across the skin. A perfect blank canvas for Chris to draw on with his nonexistent ink.

Slanted upwards to the right, down in the same direction, then the finger moved to the left still going down. His finger ended up right back where it started, and he pressed his finger against the spot again, almost making it into a point. "Easy one, Al."

"Diamond," AJ whispered. It was one of the most relaxing sensations in the world; Chris moved his finger lightly and almost lovingly, just enough pressure for AJ to feel the path and make out what Chris was tracing but not so much that it pulled him out of his tranquility.

"Bingo. Now, let's try something a little harder." His finger slowly caressed AJ's back, making another doodle. Longer strokes and shorter ones, all coming together to make a more complex artwork. But it wasn't something Chris thought would stump AJ, just make him think for a few more seconds than the damned diamond. "Well?"

"It had wings, I'll tell ya that."

"Come on Al, give me a little more. No partial credit here."

"Well, I wanna say bird, but if it is a bird, you did a _real_ crappy job of outlinin' it."

"Shut up." Chris brought his palm down on AJ's back, lightly slapping him. "Yes, it was a bird. A masterful caricature of one, if I may say so myself."

"You know you fudged the lines, man. How the heck am I supposed to guess what it is when you can't draw it right?"

"Al, I'm the one looking at it. I know what it looks like. It's gorgeous. Enough to make grown men weep."

"There's nothin' on my darn back," AJ said, snickering, "You used your finger."

"There's plenty on your back. A bird and a diamond, perfectly feathered and shining respectively."

"You're insane!"

"That may or may not be, but the fact doesn't change that I'm the one whose looking at your back, and you are just guessing what's here." Chris smiled. Messing around like this was enough to make him forget that, eventually, they'd be back on the road, under different schedules and with different people. It was as if his life only existed in that moment, something that was great for the immediate present, but would make leaving all the more hard once he did.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to AJ's back, right where the tip of the bird's wing would be if he'd used ink. "Besides, I'm on your back. That's already plenty without my fine artistry."


	4. Jeff HardyEdge

**Keep on rolling with kiss number five...  
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**Title:** Functioning's For Squares  
**Prompt:** Good Morning  
**Medium:** fic  
**Rating:** K+/PG  
**Warnings:** all appropriate, etc  
**Summary:** Had to admit, it wasn't the worst thing to wake up to in the morning. Jeff Hardy/Edge, Christian. Time unimportant.

* * *

It smelled like pancakes.

It wasn't Jeff's favorite breakfast, but since Adam was cooking, he wasn't going to argue against it. Just having breakfast was reason enough to be excited; he didn't usually make himself something to eat in the morning, either waiting until he was able to grab something for lunch or driving to Matt's house and mooching off of him. It was hard to function enough to cook before twelve.

He got out of bed slowly, scratching his head and yawning as he made his way to the living room. He didn't bother putting on any more clothes than the underwear he was already wearing. Might not have been his house, but he doubted that his host would truly mind how naked he was. He didn't even bother brushing his teeth, which his host _might _mind, but if he drank some juice before Adam got really close, he wouldn't know the difference.

Adam heard him enter the room, turning away from the stove long enough to wave at him, spatula in hand. Jeff smiled, putting his hand up in a weak wave, moving straight for the fridge. He pulled out a carton of orange juice, opening the top, but before he can put it to his mouth, he heard Adam.

"Cups. Right there, not far from you. Use them." The buzzkill. But it is his orange juice, in his kitchen, and even Jeff had enough respect to reach for a glass.

Once he downed one glass, he looked over to Adam, a little more awake. "How much longer on them?" he said, nodding at the pan in front of him. Adam shrugged.

"Wait. It's just going to be a few more minutes." Jeff nodded, pouring himself another glass. "Don't drink all my orange juice." Jeff nodded again, not really heeding the words. Orange juice was meant to be consumed, not stared at and kept until the dreaded expiration date.

After years, Adam knew that Jeff was usually dead in the mornings, and Jeff was grateful for it. When he finished his second glass, he laid his head down on the table, not exactly sleeping but just lazing around, and Adam didn't try to start a conversation. The only answers Jeff would be inclined to give were 'uh' 'nuh' and 'yuh' anyway, so it was worth neither of their effort.

"Alright, food's done!" Three words enough to make Jeff pick up his head.

"Pass me some."

"I will, give me a minute." All it took was a minute to flip the pancakes onto the plate. He went to pull out the syrup, and, as he did, a loud yawn filled the room.

"I smell pancakes." Christian walked energetically into the kitchen to the plate Adam set up for Jeff, grabbing it, pushing one pancake towards his mouth with his hand and taking a big bite. "You outdid yourself, Adam." He moved towards Adam, pressing a good morning kiss to his cheek, using the distraction to steal the syrup. "Thanks."

He sat down, perfectly aware that Jeff was staring holes into his head, but he was too busy pouring syrup onto the pancakes happily to care.

"Those were mine," Jeff spat.

Christian turned to him, grinning. "Good morning to you too!" He put his hand on Jeff's neck, pulling him in for a kiss, much like the one he gave Adam. Jeff pulled away, staring at him angrily.

"Don't you have your own house?"

"Just like you do."


	5. Kurt AngleJeff Jarrett

**Kiss number six**

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**Title:** Second Place  
**Prompt:** Navel  
**Medium: **fic  
**Rating: **R/M.  
**Warnings:** Sexual content.  
**Summary:** Once again, he had to put his own desires second. Kurt Angle/Jeff Jarrett. Special shout out to Thorsmaven, who loves this pairing like I do, and because she deserves a treat. Dated late 2006.

* * *

Jeff was attracted to him from the moment he walked into his office.

It was hard not to be. Kurt had a presence like no other, he thought: he moved like he owned every inch of ground he walked on, bold confidence in every stride. Jeff noticed it every meeting they had up until he signed his name on the dotted line. There was also the air of intensity around Kurt, most visible in his blue eyes. If Kurt was going to these meetings, he was not only considering TNA as a job, or some hobby until the WWE came calling again, he was considering TNA as his life. Kurt was going to give everything to TNA, and Jeff knew he had so much to give.

Kurt Angle was the hottest free agent on the market, and Jeff was going to tie him to _his_ brand, the one _he _started. It was the best thing he could do for Dixie Carter and for TNA. He was already thinking about dream matches for Kurt in his head, imagining him wrestling against guys like Joe, and the amount of attention those matches would bring all of TNA.

It wasn't until he was staring at Kurt's name, inked on his contract, that he realized exactly what this meant. He was Kurt's boss, and that meant he had to stamp out any attraction he had to him. There were the obvious implications of a boss having interest in a worker, and Jeff couldn't imagine Kurt allowing himself to be involved in such things. Jeff couldn't bring such negative attention to his brand, not now that they were bigger than ever. This was his dream, and it was being realized; he had to put TNA's best interests first. Kurt Angle had to only remain his employee. No matter how much he appealed to Jeff.

Before, this would've been much easier, back when he still had the mindset of that glittering, flamboyant midcarder. He wasn't anyone important, no one wanted him; accepting the fact that he wasn't going to get what he wanted was so much simpler. But things have changed. He was no longer that man. He started a company, he reigned as their champion, and almost all of the wrestlers still answered to him. He'd become someone who could get what they wanted. Anything. He tried to keep his ego in check, and most of the time, he succeeded, but that didn't change the fact that he could take whatever he pleased.

He couldn't take Kurt. He had to keep his ego in check. Once again, he had to keep his desires in check.

He could still think about it, of course. Fantasize about it. And that was exactly what he did that night. It wasn't hard to imagine that Kurt was in the room with him, or was lying next to him, or was over him… imagining was what Jeff Jarrett did best once upon a time.

He imagined Kurt's eyes, staring into his with that intensity he saw in the office, all that passion directed at him. He imagined his hands, firmly exploring every inch of skin. Clear, in his mind, there was Kurt, leaning over his bare chest, running his tongue along his nipples before licking down to his belly button, circling it slowly. Somehow, Kurt knew how sensitive he was there; maybe it was the breathless reaction Jeff made. But Kurt kissed his navel before letting his tongue move around it again, and Jeff couldn't help but moan.

In reality, it was only Jeff's two fingers coated in saliva, but that didn't matter to him. In his mind's eyes, it was Kurt making him feel this way, making him feel wanted. And right then, all he had was his imagination.

The sacrifices he had to make for his dream.


	6. Bryan DanielsonNigel McGuinness

**Kiss number eight! (Counted as a WWE fic due to Daniel Bryan being in WWE and Desmond being... somewhere)  
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**Title:** A Friendly Visit  
**Prompt:** Rough  
**Medium: **fic  
**Rating:** NC-17. Or MA. Or whatever the fuck you wanna call it.  
**Warnings:** Sexual content. In fact, the title of this fic should probably  
**Summary:** And even after plenty of fucks later, Bryan was no different. Still a firecracker waiting to be lit, exploding for a few glorious minutes before reverting back to the goofy nerd he usually was. Early 2009. Nigel McGuinness (Desmond Wolfe)/Bryan Danielson (Daniel Bryan).

* * *

He always knew who it was who knocked on his door. He didn't get much visitors; he didn't care for them, anyway. It was usually either Doug—who would call before making an appearance at his room—or his current visitor.

Bryan never called. Bryan probably didn't know he was going to be in front of his door until the moment he told whoever invited him out that he would rather spend some time alone that night. But he never did. Inevitably, whether it took five minutes or fifty, Bryan would end up knocking on his door.

He went to the door, looking through the peephole despite knowing who it was. It was a rush, seeing how Bryan acted when he was waiting outside. And there he was, the golden boy, the face of the company, the best in the world… biting his lip, waiting for the door to open. Staring at the number on the hotel room door, wondering if he was even there or if he should knock again.

And just as Bryan raised his hand to knock again, Nigel opened the door. Bryan smiled bashfully, bringing his hand back down to his side.

"You busy?" A slight headshake was the only answer Bryan needed. "So… you want to let me in?" Nigel stepped out of the way, making room for Bryan to enter. As he walked inside, Nigel smirked at him, quietly closing the door behind Bryan. Bryan was usually so confident, but when it came to this, and them, Bryan needed time and some prodding on Nigel's part to loosen up before that characteristic cockiness resurfaced.

There was silence for a moment, and Nigel thought Bryan was going to try out some small talk before getting to business. It was something Bryan sometimes tried in an attempt to make himself comfortable, an unnecessary effort that only delayed what he was really there for. But he turned out to be wrong; without much delay, Bryan pressed his lips hard against Nigel's. Nigel brought his hand to the small of Bryan's back quickly, pushing him closer, deepening the kiss.

Nigel had never made a secret of what he was, or his preferences. He was Nigel fucking McGuinness, he wanted to see who would dare to say anything about who he screwed anyway. But he never suspected for a moment that Bryan preferred the company of men as well. At least, not until the first time Bryan pressed him against a wall, looking shocked at himself once he let Nigel up.

And even after plenty of fucks later, Bryan was no different. Still a firecracker waiting to be lit, exploding for a few glorious minutes before reverting back to the goofy nerd he usually was.

Once they pulled away for a breath, Nigel moved his hand to Bryan's side, backing Bryan into the wall. Once his back hit, Nigel pressed against him again, catching his lips in another rough kiss. Bryan wrapped an arm around Nigel's back, keeping Nigel's body close to him.

It was like being hungry. Bryan kept his appetites to himself, out of some shame or maybe because he felt no need to bring it up on in the first place, and he let them out in this room. Nigel, while less silent about his own, seemed just as hungry. Each kiss was more of an attempt to devour one another than a show of any true affection, and both men were perfectly fine with that. They didn't want anything more from one another.

Who could want more anyway? Who would ask for more when Nigel had Bryan against the wall, his mouth against his neck, his hand quickly making it's way down Bryan's pants? Even more than that, Bryan wanted this. Bryan came to his room specifically for this. And Nigel was going to give him everything he craved.

"Ni…" The rest of the name melted into a moan as Bryan thrust his hips into Nigel's grasp. He could feel Bryan's hands, touching whatever they could reach, and it made him grip harder and move his hand faster. He nipped at Bryan's neck, wanting to hear him moan again, and Bryan didn't disappoint.

Without warning, Nigel felt his arm being tugged away. He allowed Bryan to pull his hand out of his pants, knowing that it meant that Bryan was done with the foreplay. He wanted more. He wanted their clothes off, out of the way; he wanted to feel Nigel's skin against his. And Nigel wanted it too.

This time, it was Nigel being backed to the bed, pushed roughly onto the mattress. He lay on the mattress, turning his head up to watch as Bryan pulled off his own clothes. He'd seen Bryan in various stages on undress the past few years, having shared a locker room with the man, but this was always different. Probably because Bryan was completely erect, looking at him with lustful eyes.

Once he was completely naked, Bryan bent over Nigel, grasping onto Nigel's pants. The button was undone, and then his pants were practically ripped off. His shirt followed quickly, and then Bryan was on top of him, lips against his in a hard kiss. Nigel wrapped an arm around him, pushing Bryan's body closer, feeling flesh against flesh.

"Tell me you got somethin'," Bryan said breathlessly, making Nigel chuckle.

"You mean to say that you came here without any equipment?"

"Did it really look like I came with anything?" Fair point. He did come empty-handed. Bryan grinded his hips against Nigel's, teasingly letting him feel his erection. "So?"

_So? _Nigel definitely liked this side of Bryan more than any other he'd come to know.


	7. Matt HardyJeff Hardy

**Nine!  
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**Title:** Promises  
**Prompt:** Butterfly  
**Medium:** fic  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** Incest, mild sexual content.

**Summary:** Matt was broken. Jeff could fix him. Matt Hardy/Jeff Hardy, Mr. Anderson cameo.

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He was broken.

It was something only a younger brother could properly identify, something only a younger brother could truly understand. Jeff had seen Matt at his highest highs, so only he could pinpoint those lowest of lows.

The WWE had been a dream for so long, he understood that. It was his dream too, the desire that motivated him for practically a decade. But sometimes, what one wanted was beyond their reach. As the Hardy Boys, they electrified the crowd, owning each eye from moment one. They revolutionized tag team wrestling, and the Tables, Ladders, and Chairs match. They were among the most popular superstars at one of the most important times in the WWE.

When he and Matt split, they were supposed to skyrocket. But they didn't. No matter how popular they were—and they always _were _popular, no one could deny this much—for some reason, it wasn't enough. Their ability, their dedication, all of it… wasn't enough.

Of course, Jeff always had more success than Matt, but even then, he knew the glory moments he had were completely unequal to the support he had, the talent he had. He wasn't too young, he didn't think himself naïve, but he was—oh so fucking stupid, really. He kept clawing and kept climbing and kept giving his all, but he was never going to get what he deserved. No, instead there was another notch in Hunter or Adam's belts, and he was a platform on which to elevate CM Punk. Adam was his friend; he cared about him, but still. He couldn't understand why reign number whatever was thrown their way, but not his.

Jeff was worn out. WWE burned him out, letting him work for something he would never get. He tasted his dream and it was yanked away over and over again, and it destroyed him. It broke him.

Just like it broke Matt.

Matt Hardy, company man, a yes, sir if there was one, a people pleaser. He'd do anything for anyone for just a bit of recognition. All he wanted was love, and for that, he'd do whatever. He'd wrestle injured; he'd go into a storyline involving his real life heartache… anything.

They'd taken advantage of him, the higher ups. The powers that be exploited his popularity to elevate talent that didn't deserve the push, used him for applause or for fan fare, whatever they wanted. But Matt didn't deserve a reward, oh no. He's Jeff Hardy's brother, and he should pay for his fuck up of a brother. Oh, and he gained weight. No matter how quality his work was, he gained some damned weight, and they couldn't have a pudgy man in the spotlight.

The WWE burned Matt out, like they did Jeff. They demanded so much and gave so little in return. They'd battered the puppy until Matt, disillusioned, quit on his dream and asked for his release.

Matt was broken.

Jeff could fix him.

It had taken very little convincing. Matt was always, would always be a family man—all it would take is some words about how 'fun' TNA is, how they could be revolutionaries again, and how it would make the whole thing all the more special to share it with his brother, and Matt would (and did) melt.

He longed for the days when he and Jeff were golden boys, when they could do no wrong, pissed pure money and won championships. Matt wanted to be on top again—or to be on top finally. He wanted another shot at ruling the wrestling world, and Jeff could give it to him.

Matt hard less matches for TNA than he had fingers, and already, he was looking better than before. Better than the distraught man who left the WWE with his tail between his legs, a talented small town boy after stardom and fell short of his potential. It happened all the time in Hollywood, and in wrestling, but it shouldn't have happened to either of them. They were too _good _for that.

Matt actually went of for a drink with some wrestlers in France for once, looking a little like himself again. A social butterfly, a people person, talking with men from James Storm to Frankie Kazarian. Jeff watched from his seat, drinking from his beer, a smile on his face. Nothing made him happier than knowing he was the cause of this rejuvenation within Matt Hardy.

There was still a ways to go, of course, but Rome wasn't built in a day, and Matt wouldn't be completely fixed so soon. Jeff could be patient though, hold his hand and lead him to his peace again.

Once his drink was gone, he walked up behind Matt, wrapping his arms around his waist and laying his head on his shoulder. "Hey Ken," he drawled, looking over at Ken Anderson. "Don't mean to cut in, but can I borrow mah brother?"

"Course. I'm gonna bother someone else then." Ken waved jovially, before walking away, leaving Jeff with Matt, brother with brother, blood with blood.

Matt tilted his head somewhat, in an attempt to see Jeff, giving the best smile he'd given in months. Still in need of tweaking, but definite progress. "What's up, 'Fro?"

"Jeff took a moment to breath the situation in. France, with his brother, doing what he loved on his terms. Not on some outdated, purple-or-orange-or-whatever worshipping old fool's terms. On Jeffrey Nero Hardy's.

He turned his head downward, pressing a kiss on Matt's shoulder. Nothing that seemed beyond average brotherly affection to anyone outside of the two of them, but Matt understood, and that was all that mattered.

"We should get some sleep," he suggested, his mind going beyond sleep. At this point, Matt wasn't going to say no—Jeff was the love and the recognition he craved at all moments. The biggest fans couldn't say that, the closest friends couldn't say that… it was an honor that belonged to Jeff and Jeff alone.

They wouldn't even need to sleep with each other… although, in all likelihood, they would soon touch each other's flesh. No, they could achieve the same amount of intimacy even with their clothes on. And as they arrived at their hotel room, and Jeff straddled Matt's lap, they knew it was true.

Matt's hands were on his sides, firm, as he laid his hands on Matt's shoulders. They were two equals, despite their position, two men reminding each other that they meant so much more than what they were handed. A small, wordless stare was held for what could have been hours, could have been minutes; it didn't register in their minds.

Jeff pressed his lips to Matt's temple, and then his forehead, before resting his own forehead against his. Whispering promises of their future, of what was to come for the Hardy boys. He fluttered his eyelashes against Matt's afterward, before placing a kiss on Matt's lips. Both pledges stronger than what his words were.

He gave him another butterfly kiss, a small reminder that they were here, this was now… and that the world was at their fingertips.


	8. Bret HartShawn Michaels

**11!  
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**Title:** Work of Art

**Prompt:** Sleeping Beauty  
**Medium:**fic  
**Rating:** I'll go with PG here  
**Warnings:** Some watch-while-he-sleeps-ness.  
**Summary:** Bret likes it when Shawn's peaceful. Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels.

* * *

Bret didn't want to move from the bed at first. In his mind, any single movement could wake up Shawn, and that was the last thing he wanted. Shawn looked so peaceful on his side of the bed that he didn't want to risk pulling him out of it.

After years and years of wrestling, of injuries and everything that they'd gone through, he knew that each moment of peace was precious. And he wanted Shawn to hold onto it as long as he could.

He looked really beautiful, too, when he was like this. He noticed how his hair framed his face, how his mouth was in a straight line, giving away nothing about what could be going through his mind.

Eventually, he slowly moved off of the bed, careful not to move the mattress too much. Shawn shuffled a little, and Bret was almost sure that he'd woken him up, but he then stilled. Once he was sure that Shawn was still asleep, he smiled widely, a sudden flash of inspiration going through his mind.

He made his way over to his bag, still wary of any sounds that could come from him. After a bit of digging, he pulled out his sketchbook and a pencil, bringing both items with him to the dresser.

He lifted himself up onto the dresser and resumed watching Shawn. He was practically motionless, a perfect picture of deep slumber. He could think of nothing he'd rather do than capture the moment with his pencil. More of a cartoonist than anything, what he really liked was making people laugh, but he still felt he could do a worthy picture of his current state.

A rough sketch of the bed was on the paper in a matter of moments; it only existed so that his drawing of Shawn wouldn't exist in midair. But when it came time to actually draw Shawn, he began to take his time; he wanted to get him properly.

He shook his head, getting the loose strands out of the way of his vision, so all his attention was on Shawn. He exaggerated some of Shawn's features for the cartoon; his hair created more of a halo, his chin more defined, his lips more full. And somehow, in a way only a subject like Shawn could possibly pull off, the cartoonish exaggeration of himself was still turning out to be completely beautiful.

BEEEEP. BEEEEP.

Bret jumped, the alarm sounding off loudly. He'd forgotten that Shawn agreed to do some promotional work for Wrestlemania. The sound pierced his ears, and he expected it to wake Shawn up, but he only shuffled around.

_How can he sleep through this? _

After a minute, Shawn's arm extended, slapping the button to turn it off. Instead of starting the day, however, Shawn just went straight back to sleep. Bret would be content with letting him stay like that, completely comfortable, but he knew that he'd much prefer to be woken up.

He walked over to the bed, leaning over Shawn. He smiled, leaning down and pressing his lips to Shawn's, before moving away and shaking Shawn.

"Hey." Barely a whisper, but it was a sign that Shawn was at least a little aware. "Why'd you stop kissing? Bring'em back."

Bret laughed. "Come on, time to get up."

"I am up. I'm just… restin' my eyes." He smiled back at him. "'Sides, don't you wanna finish your picture?"


	9. Christian and Chris Sabin

**12! Written with Rhiannamator in mind. It interested me (I've always wanted to see Jericho/Shelley, lol) so I wrote it.  
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**Title:** The All Important Question  
**Prompt:** Thighs  
**Medium:** fic  
**Rating:** M/R  
**Warnings:** Language, Sexual content  
**Summary:** It was just for some research. Christian, Chris Sabin, Chris Jericho, Alex Shelley.

* * *

"What do you mean, the potatoes are dry?"

"Just what I said, you old fuck. These potatoes are fucking dry."

"My potatoes are perfect! Ask anyone here."

"Alright then." Alex Shelley turned to Chris Sabin, who was sitting next to him at the small table in Christian's Florida home. They'd been in the neighborhood, and when Sabin told Christian that, he insisted they come over for dinner, since he had Jericho over there too. A time to meet up with all his friends, he thought, and maybe even convince Jericho into the kitchen again. He'd missed his friends and Jericho's cooking so much that he hadn't thought about the inevitable disaster that would come from having Alex Shelley and Chris Jericho, the two biggest loudmouths he knew, under the same roof. "Chris, are Jericho's potatoes dry? Yes? Thank you. What about you, Christian?" He moved his gaze to Christian, who looked like he was about to answer, but Alex cut him off. "I know. Dry as a fucking desert. Who fooled him into thinking he could cook?"

Chris Jericho was surprisingly calm in his reaction. Or, as calm as a man could be as he walked into the kitchen, grabbed the pan that once held the chicken, and dumped the remaining juice onto Alex's plate, telling him that they should be perfectly moist then.

What followed was what Christian and Sabin would later jokingly refer to as 'when divas collide', a terrible yet retrospectively hilarious confrontation between their respective best friends. In the end, Alex stalked off to the guest room Christian set aside for him and Sabin, and Jericho went to the bathroom for a shower, muttering about assclowns.

Leaving Christian and Chris with the mess to handle.

"This wasn't your best idea," Chris joked, as they dumped the plates into the sink, finally getting the kitchen clean.

"Had no idea they'd act that way."

"Really? How long have you known them?" Christian laughed, nodding. Fair enough. Sabin had a point.

"Okay, I hoped it would end at hilarious banter. You know, Alex calls Chris a fat fuck, Chris calls Alex a little bitch, there's a few snarky comments that hit a little too close to home, and we all go to bed with a smile on our face."

"Admit it. If we didn't have to clean up, that would've been the best dinner entertainment you've had in a while," Chris said, turning on the faucet.

"Absolutely… you don't have to hand wash them, I have a machine, you know." And even if he didn't, he felt like a shitty host, having Sabin do the dishes. It was bad enough he helped clean the floor; Christian had insisted he had it, and that Sabin should go hang out with Shelley, but Chris just went into the kitchen and grabbed some towels anyway.

"Just getting the food off them. I know you have a machine, it's not like it isn't right next to me." Chris started rinsing the plates, before stacking them off to the side, to be put in the dishwasher. He'd been pleasant enough with Christian in TNA, but not to the point where he'd hang out with him. Their friendship had come through AJ, who'd invited them both out enough times that they'd managed to actually hang out without AJ. Their humors were similar enough, and they had the same tendency to disregard their diets at the perfect times; something both Jericho and Shelley, for different reasons, wouldn't always do.

It made Chris wonder why he and Christian weren't friends before.

He'd noticed the way Christian was coming closer, like he was going to take over the job, but Chris held his hand up, stopping him. "Hey, one moment there," he said, "You fed me, least I can do is load a dishwasher."

"Well, if you insist." It didn't take much convincing to get Christian to back off. Sabin was taking a job off his hands and he didn't seem to have a problem doing it either. Christian could be a better host in other areas.

Chris opened the dishwasher, starting to load the dishes, and Christian started to think about TNA. He'd had a great time there, a good mix of old friends like Kurt, Rhino, and Tomko and new friends like Joe and AJ made the whole experience more comfortable, and he got to do what he loved with some genuinely talented men, a different pool that came with the WWE. The WWE had its talent too, but the two were different in ways Christian couldn't completely put to words.

"How're things?" He asked.

"Hmm?" Chris looked up from the dishwasher, shrugging. "All right, I guess. Nothing much different. I wrestle, I laugh, I sleep, I eat. And not always in that order. You?"

"Same. Except the wrestling. Instead of that, I rehab."

"How's that going, anyway? We gonna see the return of Christian at the Rumble?"

"I'm not at liberty to release that information," Christian replied, talking as if he were some kind of FBI agent, but letting a wink tell Chris he was just joking.

Chris just grinned. "Not even to a friend?"

"Not even to Jesus. You know how strict those contracts are?"

"Well, if you were in breach, anyone would take you, so…"

"And take the monster of all paycuts? Chris Sabin, if you make me lose my job, I'm selling you to an Arabian salt mine."

Chris stood up, closing the dishwasher before turning to Christian. "Why an Arabian salt mine? What's wrong with a European brothel or something like that?"

"Because you'd enjoy the brothel too much," Christian laughed, "Besides, the salt mine would probably pay more."

"People would pay millions to have sex with me."

"Millions of what? Not dollars."

"Why not? Look at me." Chris gestured downward, at his body. "Perfect condition. I'm sexy."

Christian nodded. "Alright then. If it's that important to you, I sell you to a brothel instead of a salt mine."

"Thank you." Chris nodded, before slapping his hand on Christian's back. The two made their way to the living room, turning on the TV. The show was more noise than anything; the two were too busy talking about the most meaningless things in the world.

"Okay. So, sex in a porto potty or sex in a dumpster?"

"How empty is this dumpster? And how empty is the toilet in the porto potty?"

"Both halfway filled."

"Nasty."

"I know, right?" Christian smirked. "But it's one or the other."

Chris looked up, nodding his head while he pondered the question. "Okay, dumpster, but I'm on top."

"You'd put Alex on a pile of trash?"

"I'd do it without having to fuck him," he replied, "It would be funny. He'd get all pissed off and shouty and… I'll blame Jericho!"

"And then we'd all die and it would be your fault. Because you wouldn't lie on some trash."

"Why are you under the impression I'd take Alex with me to have garbage sex?" Chris asked, "Maybe I care more about my best friend than that. Maybe I'll take a rat with me to the dumpster. Or you. No difference, really."

"You'd take me to have dumpster sex with you?" Christian put his hand to his chest, taking a deep breath like he just was announced Miss America. "Chris, I'm speechless!"

"It'll be the best dumpster sex you've ever had," Chris promised.

"Good, because my last dumpster sex was _terrible_." They both laughed, and then Christian said, "Your turn."

"Okay. Um… tit fuck or thigh fuck?"

"Ew. That's worse than dumpster sex, man. No holes at all?"

"Nope. Get off between tits or thighs, only choices."

"Whose tits and whose thighs?" Christian asked. "I mean, are we talking Pam Anderson tits, or we talking runway model tits?"

"You know no penis fits between runway tits," Chris said. He thought for a moment. "Hmm… okay. Christy Hemme type tits. Me style thighs."

"You think your thighs rank up in quality thighs the way Christy's tits rank in quality tits?"

"Very much so. These…" Chris slapped his thighs, "Are God's gift to legs. You can't even deny them."

"Hmm." Christian scratched his chin. "Mind if I survey the merchandise?"

"Well, I don't have Christy's tits with me off hand…" Christian wasn't even listening. He'd slipped off the couch onto his knees, facing Chris' direction. He grabbed Chris' knees, separating them, before looking over his right thigh. It was enough to make Chris laugh, throwing his head back. Christian was looking over his clothed thigh like an art collector, examining a portrait.

"You won't find a single flaw, promise," Chris managed out through his laughs.

"I'll see for myself, thanks." He ran a hand up the chosen thigh, squeezing halfway between his knee and his hip. That stopped Chris from laughing for a moment. He picked his head up, looking on as Christian's hand ran the rest of the way up, and then back down to his knee.

"Well, you _might _add a flaw to it now…"

"If I'm going to put my penis between your thighs, they'll have to handle a touch, you know," Christian said. He slipped his hand between Sabin's thigh and the couch, grasping at the fat. Chris took a deep breath, allowing Christian to explore his thigh. Even through the denim, it still felt good.

Christian nodded after a bit, pausing his hand on the top of his leg before leaning in and kissing his thigh, a stamp of approval more than anything. He sat back on his knees, smiling up at him. "So?" Chris asked, wondering if he could convince Christian to examine again, once his jeans were off.

"Bring on Christy's tits," he said, "I should go check on my other guests."


	10. Nightstalkers Matt Hardy and Christian

**Fourteen!  
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**Title: **Could Have  
**Prompt:** Sadness  
**Medium: **fic  
**Rating:** PG-13/T  
**Warnings:** Mentions of violence, supernatural elements  
**Summary:** AU, Nightstalkers!Universe, post Just Close Your Eyes. Christian wasn't supposed to make connections. His brother was his first mistake. Matt Hardy was his second. Christian, Matt Hardy, Edge (Adam). Mentions of Shawn Michaels, Triple H (Hunter Helmsley), and Gangrel (David Heath).  
**A/N: **Nightstalkers are demon hunters. David Heath (Gangrel) became a vampire when Adam and Christian were ten. Shawn and Hunter trained the two to hunt demons after rescuing them.

* * *

Giving your life to demon hunting is a huge decision to make at ten years.

But at the time, it was the best decision Christian could make. For one thing, it meant him and Adam could stay together. They would never see Shannon, Ian, or Shelley again—they would never see their home again—but they would be able to stay together. And it would also be a chance to help their father, save him from the monster that had taken over him. For a chance to destroy whatever had it's hold over David Heath, and to at least remain together, Christian and Adam would give anything.

It was Christian's family that kept him going. For every drop of sweat, every tear spilled, every time Shawn or Hunter made him bleed, Christian thought of Adam, of his father. He wasn't going to leave Adam behind, and he wasn't going to give up on his Dad.

He had to carry on. For Adam. For his father. And for a sense of peace that could only come from putting a bullet through the head of the fucking monsters that existed in the world.

But sometimes, it wasn't enough. Shawn had trained him against making long lasting connections; the only person he had any true alliance to was Adam. And it wasn't enough. As he grew older, the times that he craved more than just a brother and a grudge grew more often. People around him were living life in ways he couldn't; he would never experience high school, college. They would be able to hang out with best friends or take someone they liked on a date. He wasn't supposed to care about anyone like that; those kind of connections just made the job harder.

When his thoughts went down that path, inevitably, he thought about the time he cut his hair. Once upon a time, he had hair like Adam's. It was one of the reasons people thought they were blood brothers; they'd somehow grown up looking similar, as if living under the same household, learning from the same Nighstalkers, and toiling together rubbed off on one another until they were more than foster brothers.

Shawn and Hunter also had long blonde hair. In some ways, it connected the four Nightstalkers, mentors and students. They looked more like a family than they had the right to. He couldn't love Shawn or Hunter, not ever after everything they'd put him and Adam through. He wasn't supposed to love them, either.

His father also had blonde hair. He'd never be able to call David Heath father again… he was something dark now, something that had tried to kill him. That hurt Adam and nearly killed him. And David Heath loved Christian's hair.

If he was going to be denied his family, well, he'd be denied it as fully as possible.

He could still remember chopping off his hair, cropping it short. Once he was done, he couldn't recognize himself. But that's what he wanted. This person had no family, no connection to David Heath, Shawn Michaels, Hunter Helmsley… anyone.

He didn't even want Adam to be his brother at the moment. If he wasn't supposed to care for anyone, then he didn't want a brother. He didn't want a single person he could love and lose.

If a family was going to be denied him, he wanted it denied all the way.

It was Adam who found Christian in the bathroom, long strands of golden hair on the tile, staring at the scissors in his hands.

"Christian," Adam whispered, grabbing hold of the scissors. He slowly pulled them away, watching as Christian's gaze met his. Could Adam see everything Christian was thinking? Did he know what kind of pain Christian was feeling?

"I needed a change," he said simply. And Adam moved closer, wrapping his arms around Christian's body. Christian laid his head against Adam's chest, and he knew that there was no way he'd ever stop loving Adam. His brother meant too much to him. It was a mistake, to be so attached, but it was one Christian couldn't stop himself from making. Adam was what got him through the roughest patches of his life; how could such a bond be anything but good?

And it was that he wondered then, laying his head against Matt Hardy's shoulder as Adam filled the tank of the car. But it wasn't about his brother this time; it was his partner, it was everything Matt had ever been to him. He wasn't supposed to love Matt. Vickie told him as much, and Vickie was never wrong. There was also the fact that Matt was straight, and this could ruin everything they'd worked for the past year.

But sometimes, it was Matt who got him through. Where Adam couldn't help him, when brotherly love wasn't enough, it was his love for Matt that got him through.

These bonds couldn't be wrong, if they did such good things. But apparently hell lay before him should he act on these feelings.

He needed Matt. He couldn't have Matt in the way he needed him.

"Hey." Christian looked up, at Matt's face. Matt had lost family the way Christian lost family, but where Christian had Adam, Matt only had a ghost of a brother he wasn't able to save. Matt had nobody, and Christian liked to believe it was the little family they made for themselves that helped Matt.

These bonds couldn't be wrong. Not when they did so much. But the warnings still hung over Christian's head, making him wonder if there was more than he knew. "Yeah?"

"Is it worth it?" And Christian knew what he was asking. Was life, hunting, the people… was everything worth it?

Christian grabbed Matt's hand, picking it up to his mouth and pressing his lips to it in a quiet kiss, with every bit of reassurance he could afford. He wanted to do so much more, but there was only so much he could do without letting Matt know he was in love with him.

"I hope so." He couldn't say yes, but God, did he hope so.


	11. D'Angelo DineroMr Anderson

**Fifteen!  
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**Title:** Something Sort of Similar to Something  
**Prompt:** Emoticon  
**Medium: **fic  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings:** Language.  
**Summary:** If looks could kill, Anderson would've exploded and killed at least ninety other people in the process. Pre-Bound for Glory, post Mr. Anderson's face turn. Mr. Anderson (Ken)/The Pope D'Angelo Dinero (Elijah Burke). With Jay Lethal cameo.

* * *

He always seemed to catch Elijah when he least wanted to see him.

Elijah and Jay were talking about their matches, goofing around when they first heard him come in. "Wait, all black people really _do _hang out together? Where's OJ? Let's make this a real party!" Elijah gritted his teeth as Jay chuckled, standing up and holding out his hand for their new guest to shake. He knew that voice anywhere.

And sure enough, it was Ken who lightly grasped onto Jay's fingers, looking like he couldn't be bothered with Jay, barely shaking his hand. Jay was obviously confused by this, but then Anderson laughed and gave him a proper handshake. "You should see your face sometime, Lethal. Priceless."

Jay just smiled, deciding that if he dug further, it would just get weirder. "Well, I was actually gonna go pick up some food now… see you later, Elijah."

"No," Elijah mouthed, shaking his head. There was no way he was staying alone with Anderson. In response, Jay just nodded to the door, suggesting that Elijah leave with him. He didn't need telling twice, standing up without acknowledging Anderson, following Jay towards the door.

"Oh, come on Elijah." He felt Anderson's hand on his arm, and his immediate thought was to hit him so hard that Anderson would let go. "Let's talk a bit, eh?"

"Not in the mood."

"You were pretty chatty with Lethal…" he looked over Elijah, thinking about his 'changing moods'. "PMS messin' with you, buddy?"

"Fuck off."

"Oh, come on, Elijah. I'm just fucking with ya; you know how it is. I joke, you joke… we joke! It's our personal foreplay."

"You and me don't have foreplay, Anderson. We don't have anything." Elijah explained quickly, "I'm not fooled by this little 'I'm a sweet asshole' routine you play for everyone else. I don't trust you."

"You don't have to trust me. I just want you to _like _me."

Elijah couldn't help but laugh; Anderson just didn't get it. "How am I supposed to like someone I don't trust?" He knew he was probably playing into his game, but in his mind, if he could get Anderson to understand, maybe then he'd get some damned peace from him.

Anderson held his hands out, as if he didn't want to touch himself. "Don't leave me alone with your money. Keep your eye on me. Whatever you need to do. But… have _fun _with me."

"Come on now. You can have fun with whomever you please. You don't need to bug me."

"But you are the whomever I please," Anderson replied.

Elijah sighed in exasperation; this was really the last thing he needed after a long day of work. "What the hell do you want, then? Why do you keep sniffin' around me? Huh?"

Anderson smiled; this was an invitation to _do _what he wanted, in his mind. And without hesitation, he said, "I want to asterisk you."

Elijah stared at him, obviously confused. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"You know, asterisk? Those little star thingies?" Elijah still stared at him, unsure what little stars on telephone buttons meant verbally. "Oh, come on. You _have _to know what I mean." When he showed no sign of recognition to the word, Anderson reached out, digging into Elijah's pocket.

"Hey!" Elijah reached for his hand, to pull it out of his pocket, but Anderson pulled it out first. In his hand, there was the Sharpie Elijah carried to sign autographs.

"Knew you carried one of these. Lucky I got the right pocket." He grinned over at Anderson. "Imagine if you put it in the other pocket?" He laid his hand out and began to draw on it, picking his hand up whenever Elijah tried to get a peek at it.

"What're you doin'?" He asked.

"Patience, patience." Then, without warning, Ken threw the marker back at Elijah. He caught it as best as he could, bringing the marker to his chest to keep it from falling to the floor. He turned his hand, showing him a crudely drawn face, with two dots for eyes, a dash as a nose, and an asterisk where the mouth would be. "See?"

Suddenly, Anderson brought his hand to Elijah's face in a light slap. He pushed the asterisk into his cheek, letting the face 'kiss' him. "Maybe next time it'll be the real thing," Anderson said, pulling his hand away.

"Are you crazy?" Elijah shouted, rubbing his cheek.

"Just a bit," Anderson said, holding up his hand, holding his fingers barely apart from each other. "It's part of my charm."

And he did the only thing he could do: he laughed. Loudly. He didn't know what else he could do. It was just far too ridiculous. He wasn't sure how he felt about Anderson, but he had to admit, it was kind of entertaining, being around him.


	12. CM PunkColt Cabana Second Coming

**Seventeen!  
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**Title:** Where I Belong  
**Prompt:** Letter (XOXO)  
**Medium:** fic  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warnings: **Language  
**Summary:** Punk just needed to go home. CM Punk/Colt Cabana

* * *

At this point, he was ready to just collapse. He didn't get much sleep the night before, or on the trip back to Chicago. He tried, but instead he just listened to his music and hoped his hat and hood were enough to hide his ace as he made his way back home. And it was. Punk wasn't bothered once, which he was grateful for. He normally lacked patience to deal with rude little bastards who thought he just existed to cater to their whims every second of the day, but today, he knew he'd be far worse.

He made it to the familiar studio apartment earlier than usual. Silly text messages from the owner of the apartment were the only things that made his trip bearable; slightly overbearing, mildly corny, and each ending with that _obnoxious _signature XOX.

Punk didn't understand what it meant. Of course he knew that they were supposed to stand for hugs and kisses, don't tell him that, but what he didn't know was why. Whoever could explain that to him would get a fucking medal. All he knew was that Colt put them at the end of the texts because he was aware that Punk was bothered by the seeming lack of proper symbolism, and that it would somewhat bother but still hopefully amuse his friend.

Punk used to text things back like 'do you think I'm your girlfriend, Cabana?' or 'is that supposed to be me and you? You're not that round, Colt', but then he realized the taunts actually motivated Colt to send more, so he stopped feeding the troll.

Usually, Punk didn't answer text messages, under the belief that they could just talk later, and for Colt to get anything in reply, even something like 'that's not how you play tic tac toe' was enough to prompt Colt to continue.

The last on came in reply to Punk stating he was in Chicago and would be there in twenty minutes or so.

_Cool. What do you want to eat? I'm going to the store now XOXO_

He ignored his need to verbally smack Colt for the signature before sending a three-word reply.

_Get frozen pizza_

He hoped Colt remembered the frozen pizza.

He knocked on Colt's door; having lost the keys Colt made for him at his place some time ago, and not caring to look for them. Colt always answered it anyway,

And there he was, opening the door before Punk could think to knock again. Colt never left him waiting long. It was one of the many, many reasons Colt Cabana was one of the few people Punk could tolerate for long periods of time.

Colt's gaze lingered on Punk's eye, telling the other man just how worried Colt actually was, despite the huge grin on his face. "Still no keys?"

"Sorry. Matt Classic ate them. The bastard." Colt opened his arms, despite what sounded distinctly like a fat joke, and Punk let him hug him, placing his own arms around Colt's back. Normally, Punk patted his back and shoved him away quickly, not one for overt signs of affection, but this time, Punk stood in his arms. It felt good to be in a place he considered a second address, away from everybody but those he considered like family.

Colt was family. Colt was _home. _It was something that Punk didn't admit, even to himself. He hadn't ever put much stock in the concept of home, not after his upbringing. Home was supposed to be safe, a place of comfort; not of daily arguments, or where the couch smelled like rat piss because the so-called man of the house aimed for the toilet in the wrong room. Only thing that house taught him was what not to be, giving him a lifestyle he still held to this day.

Home never truly existed to him until he started sharing a room with Colt Cabana. His goofy, endearing, annoying, loyal, and impossible to hate home.

Punk knew that, if he clung to him too long, Colt would discern that something was off, so he finally pulled away. Too late, though, by the look on Colt's face.

"I'm just gonna go to bed, and then we can eat. That fine?"

"I already popped the pizza in the oven."

"Why?"

Colt shrugged. "Thought you'd like to eat when you got in." He sounded apologetic, like if he'd done something wrong. All it took was a few words to deflate Colt, and that wasn't Punk's intention. Colt meant well, and that's what mattered.

Punk slapped his arm, giving him a half smile. "Thanks. Overachiever." Colt returned to his regular smile, his mood changing with a couple of words. He picked up enough information about Punk's past couple of days to know that the other man was having a hard time, and all he wanted to be was helpful.

Colt didn't have to do much to be helpful, though.

He already was.

"We could have the pizza in bed," Colt offered. He was sure Punk would be mindful of his sheets.

"Yeah, we can." Punk walked passed Colt, further into the house, going straight to his bed. He could tell Colt was following him by the footsteps, staying back enough, giving him space. Punk immediately threw his bag down, tugged off his jacket, and then kicked his sneakers off, only shedding enough to make himself comfortable, but not bothering to take off any more.

He went straight to the bed, throwing himself down on the mattress, lying on his side to look at Colt. "You comfortable like that?" Colt asked. He was still worried, but he didn't ask the questions Punk knew he wanted to, not poking his nose into anything Punk might not want to speak about.

"Perfectly."

Colt nodded, moving towards the bed, bringing himself down next to Punk. They lay next to each other, face to face. Neither had to say anything, or do anything; after years, they could read each other fairly well. Colt knew that Punk just wanted some sleep, and Punk knew that Colt was curious.

"It was stupid," Punk finally said, giving Colt what he was after first, "The kid was just supposed to slap me. Little fucker clawed my eye, and you know how I am, Colt. Just lost my temper, and shit got a bit out of hand."

Colt nodded, registering each word. After a moment, he asked, "Why was the kid supposed to slap you?"

"Because I'm a douchebag." A small snicker escaped Colt, even though he knew Punk was being serious, at the factual manner in which it was spoken more than anything. Well, it was a fact, but most people didn't own up to their shortcomings. Punk was aware of his, just as well as he was at what he excelled at. Didn't mean he was going to change, but he at least knew what he was.

"You didn't hit him, did you?"

"Colt, I'm not that heartless…"

"I heard he cried."

"Doesn't mean I hit him." Punk gestured to himself, as if that would explain everything. "I just wanted to fuck with the kids head after what he did. Didn't mean to make him cry."

"You just wanted to _fuck with the kid's head_?" Colt repeated, allowing Punk to hear exactly what he said.

"I know, I know! I just lost my temper."

Colt nodded again, before laying his arm over Punk's body. He wanted Punk to know that, no matter how much he didn't agree with what he did, he was still on his side. "At least you didn't touch the kid."

"Even I have limits, Cabana." Punk kept quiet about his arm. Even as time continued to pass, there wasn't a single complaint.

This was, for lack of better words, where Punk belonged. The place didn't matter as much to him; Chicago held a comfort all it's own, but really, he could be anywhere. It wasn't a house, or an apartment, or a bed, but something a lot more pudgy.

Punk leaned in, pressing his lips to Colt's shoulder in a rare piece of gentleness. "Hey."

"Yeah, Punkers?"

"The pizza."

"The p—OH!" Colt rolled off the bed as fast as he could, stumbling out of the room in a hurry. Punk watched him go, snickering even when Colt's body disappeared.

There for not even an hour, and things were already looking up.


	13. AJ StylesSamoa Joe

**Eighteen!  
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**Title:** Going Home

**Prompt:** Eyelids  
**Medium:**fic  
**Rating:** PG? I dunno  
**Warnings:** Nadie.  
**Summary:** AJ's deep in thought. Joe notices. AJ Styles/Samoa Joe

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Joe's eyes snapped open, the sound of the in-flight movie becoming clearer. He blinked for a moment, knowing he wasn't going to get back to sleep anytime soon. He looked up at the monitor, noting that he had a good hour ahead of him before the plane landed home in California. And he immediately wished that he were still asleep. He _hated _flights like these, far too long and uncomfortable, but it was a necessary evil.

He turned his head to the side, taking a look at the man next to him. He couldn't see AJ's face; his hood was up around his head, something he inevitably did when he sought some privacy in public. Here he was, hoping for some company for that last hour, but he had a feeling that AJ was fast asleep.

He put his hand on AJ's shoulder, a small touch just to see if he were really asleep. Surprisingly enough, AJ turned around, opening his eyes. His hands moved up to pull headphones out of his ears as he gave Joe an inquisitive look. "Yeah?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to bug you."

"Well, you did." AJ's face told him, however, that he didn't mind at all. "Come on, what's up?"

"I just wanted to see if you were awake." Half of him did want to engage AJ in conversation, make the hour pass quicker, but he didn't want to do that if AJ didn't want to. And he had a good feeling that AJ would prefer some solitude.

AJ gave him a small smile, and Joe decided it was a prompt that it was okay to speak a little. "Hey, what're you listening to?"

"Some Manic. Helps me think."

"Oh, think? About what?"

"Life." AJ didn't expound on it, and Joe didn't ask him to. "Thanks for invitin' me, man."

"Anytime." He brought his hand back to AJ's arm, giving it an affectionate squeeze, saying everything that he could possibly think to mention without actually voicing it. _I'm glad you're next to me. You and I are going to have a great time. There's nothing more that I want then for you to be with me, at my home. _

AJ's smile grew, sharing a look with Joe before putting his headphones back in his ears, getting lost in the music. Sometimes, Joe really wondered what went through AJ's head, but he never asked unless it was really bugging him. He was so frequently deep in thought that Joe was certain that AJ must know some fantastic secret that he didn't share with the world. He had to have come up with _something _special.

AJ's eyes were closed again, his head gently bobbing to whatever song was playing. He didn't even know Joe was still looking at him until he could feel Joe's lips press right below his brow bone. He opened his eyes, smiling up at him. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Joe said, a little loudly so that he could hear him through the music. "Just… don't think so hard, okay?"


End file.
